


Acrobatic Blood; Concertina Cheating Heartbeat

by loonyBibliophile



Series: If Things Go right We Can Frame It [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Art Student AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:41:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2461934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loonyBibliophile/pseuds/loonyBibliophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well I suppose the least I can do is help you find what you’re looking for? I’m Jemma Simmons. Call me Simmons though, please.”</p><p> “Fitz. Just Fitz. I’d shake your hand but I’m not sure that would be wise.” He grinned ruefully and stuck out two bright red hands.</p><p> “Nice to meet you ‘Just Fitz’… oh gosh, that was awful, ignore me, people are truly not my strong suit.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Acrobatic Blood; Concertina Cheating Heartbeat

“Pthalo blue, pthalo blue, where in the name of all that is holy is a tube of god damn pthalo blue.” Fitz mumbled irritably to himself as he looked through the bin in the small on campus art store. “I just want to finish my bloody midterm, is that too much to ask.” He pulled up an unmarked tube and moved to screw the cap off to check the shade, when something collided with him. Or rather, someone.

 

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, I tripped over a- … oh dear.” The woman who stumbled into him looked down and frowned at the tube of paint Fitz had been holding, now smeared bright red down his hands on her blouse. “Bloody hell, what a mess. Sorry about the paint. I’ll pay for the tube.”

 

“I err, it’s fine, don’t worry about it.” He bumbled his way through the sentence, blinking down at the slightly smaller person. She smiled apologetically and nodded, smoothing her hair and frowning down at her blouse.

 

“Well I suppose the least I can do is help you find what you’re looking for? I’m Jemma Simmons. Call me Simmons though, please.”

 

“Fitz. Just Fitz. I’d shake your hand but I’m not sure that would be wise.” He grinned ruefully and stuck out two bright red hands.

 

“Nice to meet you ‘Just Fitz’… oh gosh, that was awful, ignore me, people are truly not my strong suit.”

 

“I’ve heard worse. My closest friend thinks obscure puns about weird movies are the epitome of comedy.”

 

“My best friend speaks in cat puns so I understand.”

 

“I’ve got to wash my hands and find a tube of pthalo blue and some more grumtine oil, but I’ve got something that should take th’ paint righ’ outa your blouse. I mean, you migh’ too for all I know, you’re clearly also an art student, I just… thought I’d offer. I suppose.” He stumbles through the sentence and Simmons smiles up at him benignly and giggles, just barely.

 

“Sure. Let me find you some towels.” She bustles away to the restroom and returns with a handful of paper towels. “I just brought them dry. The water wouldn’t do much after all.”

 

“Thanks.” He takes the towels and scrubs the worst of the paint off, only leaving a vague red stain to his skin in patches.

 

“I really am sorry for running into you, but I had to take my contacts out, and I don’t have my glasses with me, so my vision’s a bit dodgy from far away.” She smiled apologetically again and Fitz shook his head.

 

“Really, it’s no’ a big deal. Are you new here? I feel like I’d have noticed another Brit around if you’d been here last year.”

 

“Oh! Yes, I just started this semester. I had to transfer. Well, had to move; chose to transfer. Bit complicated I suppose.”

 

“Where in England are you from?”

 

“Sheffield, but that’s not where I transferred from, I moved to the states ages ago, I transferred here from not too far away. Scotland for you, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, by way of Glasgow, moved here last year for school.”

 

“Painting major, I assume?”

 

“Just fine arts, actually, but oils are a favorite medium. Oils and pastels and charcoal. And you?”

 

“Illustration major, with a focus in medical and technical illustration. Though I do enjoy a good watercolor in my free time.”

 

“I better find a tube of paint and check out before the shop closes.”

 

“Right, sorry. Carry on! I’d help with the paint but I’m not sure how useful I’d be half blind.”

 

“It’s alright.” He said, turning around to rummage once more, only to surface triumphantly moments later. “If it was a snake it would have bitten me. You must be good luck.” He winced “Shite, sorry, that was probably poor taste.” But she was laughing, so he smiled anyway.

 

“Alright, ready to go?” she smiled up at him when he exited the store, and he nodded, sorting out the small plastic bag in his hand. “So what are you painting?”

 

“Nothing exciting, just a portrait of my roommate for a midterm. He’s got dark skin and I’m running low on colors deep enough to get the shade right, but I’m not big on using straight black except for core shadows, and browns tend to muddy, so pthalo blue it is.”

 

“Midterms are killing you as well then? My rendering homework is going to be the end of me, and if it’s not, it’s going to be the end of my healthy neck vertebrae.” She cracked her neck as if to punctuate her point, and Fitz laughed as they made their way down the street. “So do you live on campus?”

 

“Yeah, the dorms just across there.”

 

“Oh good, me too. Funny, you’d think we’d have run into each other by now.”

 

“World’s a strange place.”

 

They made their way across the street and into the apartment complex that housed the small school’s dorms. Fitz’s room was on a different floor than Simmons’, which helped explained how they’d never run into each other before. One elevator ride and a short walk down a hall later, Fitz was unlocking his door.

 

“Trip? You home?”

 

“Yeah, I’m out on the porch.” A deeper voice hollered back, and a hand covered in clay waved from the open door to the apartment’s modest balcony.

 

“I’ve got a friend with me, she’s called Simmons.”

 

“Well ain’t that something?” the voice laughed good naturedly and came inside, wiping his hands on an apron. “I’m Antoine Triplett but people call me Trip.” He held out a newly clay free hand.

 

“I’m Simmons, Jemma Simmons technically, but please, just Simmons.” She smiled and took his hand. “Sculpture major?”

 

“Oh yeah. I am all about clay.” He grinned, a pleasant crooked expression, and then nodded his exit and returned to the porch. “He does seem a good portrait subject. Very nice jaw. Strong neckline.”

 

“You’ve been in my apartment five seconds and barely just met me let alone my roommate and you’re hitting on him. God have mercy on my soul, this is like Skye all over again.”

 

“Skye? You know Skye?” she glanced up at him, incredulous.

 

“You mean you know Skye? Small world, innit?”

 

“I don’t just know Skye, I live with Skye. I met her in an abroad program a few years ago, it’s part of the reason I transferred here when the option presented itself.”

 

“I literally cannot even believe that.”

 

“You’d make a good portrait subject too, you know.” Simmons said suddenly, veering off subject, or back on subject depending on how you looked at it “The curly messy hair, the nice lips, and the blue eyes. Cherubic almost.”

 

“Excuse you. I am not some chubby little cupid in a Botticelli. If anyone in this room belongs in a Botticelli it’s clearly you. You’ve got the flawless dewy skin, the flowing hair, and the symmetrical features. “

 

“What comparison would you prefer then? Do you think of yourself as a strange abstract Picasso? A dark and brooding Caravaggio? A spotty but undeniable interesting Van Gogh?” she raised an eyebrow playfully and he laughed, letting an easy grin settle on his features.

 

“Are those my choices then? Van Gogh, I reckon. Not quite dark enough for Caravaggio and I think Picasso is a bit too out there.” He smirked “Alright then, I’ll just need to find my solvent and a plastic bin and…. Shite. I’d need to oak your shirt. I didn’t think this through, clearly.”

 

“Oh, that’s alright. I can borrow something, can’t I? I know we’ve just met and all, but you DID take me back to your apartment without a thought so I’m sure you can sacrifice a shirt for a few hours.”

 

“Oh. Yeah, that makes perfect sense actually, hold on.” He ducked into the next room, and emerged a few moments later with a balled up blue shirt in his hand. She arched an eyebrow.

 

‘Did you pull this from the hamper, or do you just not fold your washing?”

 

“Er… the second one?”

 

“Ugh. Animal.” She rolled her eyes but took the shirt, managing to find the restroom easily and swapping the tshirt, revealed to feature the logo for the Artic Monkeys, for her own button up blouse. When she emerged from the bathroom, Fitz was swishing clear liquid in a plastic tub, leaning easily against the counter. “Here you go.” She handed her blouse to him and pushed herself up onto the counter top, sitting carefully against the edge. “So how do you know Skye?”

 

“I actually met her at art camp too, a few years ago. Came to the states with relatives for the summer, spent a few weeks at a camp for gifted kids.”

 

“Wait. In Connecticut? Like four summers ago?”

 

“Yeah, actually… wait, you don’t mean-“

 

“I was there too! That’s where I met Skye! Gosh, it really is a small world. I can’t believe we’ve never met before now. Well I mean, we must have met at camp, but I mean that we remember.”

 

“What a perfectly absurd series of coincidence.” Fitz chuckled and shook his head as he sloshed the shirt around in the cleaner, then lifting it out and ringing it and taking up a dish scrubber to scrub at the stain. “So where’d you transfer from?”

 

“Yale University School of art.” She smiled, unabashedly proud of her previous accomplishment. Fitz let out a low whistle.

 

“Bit of a step down here at RISD eh?”

 

“No, just a different set of stairs.” She shrugged simply. “Yale… Was nice. But for a number of reasons turned out to be the wrong kind of place for me. It was meant as a sort of compromise with my parents really. Going to Yale, I mean.”

 

“Not thrilled about the whole artist thing?”

 

“Oh lord no. ‘Oooh, but Jemma darling you’re so bright!’ ‘Come one sweetheart, wouldn’t you rather do something more meaningful?’ Anything you can think of that parents normally say in that sort of situation, they said. But they’re a lawyer and a doctor, so I suppose that’s to be expected. A plastic surgeon and a divorce lawyer, to be exact.”

 

“Oi, that sounds like a righ’ jolly household.”

 

“Yes, it was a bright and shining den of pessimism and productivity.” She smirks slightly and tilts her head to watch his hands as she works. If Simmons has noticed one thing about artists, it’s that they almost universally have nice hands. Fitz though, has particularly appealing ones. His fingers are long and tapered, without being spindly, and his palms seem a bit too wide for his wrists, but in a way that makes him seem expressive and sturdy, instead of gawky. She watches the sure and steady way the digits moves as he cleans, and she knows watching him paint must be a wonder to behold. “Fitz.” She asked suddenly, her eyes brightening.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I have this project for my anatomy class. I need a hand model. Would you do it?”

 

“I don’t see why not, but uh, why? Trip’s hands are probably better, and there’s Skye, and I think girls’ hands are generally seen as prettier that guys’ hands.”  He shrugged and pulled his hands out of the water and looked at them idly.

 

“Valid points, but you’ve got such nice, slender fingers and big palms, it will be really easy to see the underlying anatomy. Here, I’ll show you!” she grinned again and grabbed his right wrist, startling him. She unfolded his thumb and pointer finger. “On the thumb, you’ve got the distal phalanx and the proximal phalanx, and then on all your other fingers, you have proximal, middle, and distal. And the back of your hands are quite lean, so all the extensors that help move your fingers are very clearly visible.” She ran her finger of the back of his hand, tapping each tendon as she passed it. She flipped his hand over. “And from what I assume is years of painting, and maybe some sort of instrument playing? Your abductor for your thumb is quite nicely developed.”

 

Throughout this entire experience Fitz just sort of stares blankly at her, trying not to blush. Once she finished explaining the abductor muscle in his thumb he manages to stammer out a response.

 

“I play the guitar.” As soon as he speaks again, she becomes acutely aware of how strange it is she’s just been running her fingers all over this almost perfect strangers hand and coughs, dropping it carefully.

 

“Sorry..” she mumbled, scrunching up her nose and staring at the wall.

 

“It’s fine it was just… unexpected. But anyway. Yeah, I do play an instrument, I play guitar.”

 

“How very art school of you.”

 

“At least it’s not the ukulele. Trip plays the ukulele.”

 

“Do not mock my instrument, man. I can hear you out here!” Trip calls from the porch, but his voice is teasing, not spiteful.

 

“I play the piano.” Simmons smiles.

 

“How very proper English upbringing of you.” Fitz said with a smirk. Simmons narrowed her eyes at him and shoved him away from the counter.

 

“Oh shut up.”

 

“Well, it looks like this is going to need to sit overnight, so uh, sorry about that. I don’t have class tomorrow morning, so I’ll get up early and run it through the wash and then give it back to you? “

 

“Sure! Don’t dry it though; I let that one hang dry. So when do you have class and when do you think it will be ready?”

 

“I’ve no classes till three tomorrow. And probably about ten? I’ll get up at nine and put it in the wash with a few of my dress shirts, so nothing will color it. “

 

“I’ll be by at ten then. I can bring breakfast if you like. As thanks, and apologies for the paint, and a deposit on future favors I’ll owe you for being a hand model.”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

“Great! Do you like tea?”

 

“Of course I like tea. Is that a joke?”

 

“Just checking. I guess I’ll have to wear your shirt back. I’ll bring it tomorrow, I can wash it if you like.”

 

“No, it’s alright.”

 

“Okay. See you in the morning, Fitz.”

 

“Good night, Simmons.”

 

“So who was that?” Trip asks, as he walks in from the porch and untying his apron.

 

“New friend, I think. She ran into me at the store on campus, I was holding an open tube of paint. Things got a bit messy so I said I’d fix her shirt. “

 

“Cute.”

 

“Don’t give me that. And don’t tell Skye.”

 

“Oh, it’s too late for that. I texted her the minute you brought a strange girl into our dorm room. She knows.”

 

“I’m going to be dead before the week is out because she’s never going to leave me alone, aren’t I.”

 

“Yeah, probably. Well I’m gonna get my ass up at sunrise to work, once it’s light enough, so I will see you tomorrow, I needs my shut eye.” Trip grinned crookedly and headed for the bathroom, to wash all the clay and dust off and then pass out. Fitz neatened up the kitchen, made sure Simmons’ shirt was safely soaking, checked that the living room was totally a mess, and then poured himself a cup of coffee and set himself up for a late night of painting. When his alarm went off at eight the next morning, so he’d have time to wash the shirt and shower and be presentable by ten, he’d been asleep for all of two hours. He groaned loudly, looked at his phone, and ignored all the texts from Skye about the ‘mystery girl’. There was a text from a number he didn’t recognize.

 

_Hey, it’s Simmons! I got your number from Skye, sorry if that’s a bit odd but I had a question! The question is: What are your thoughts on Belgian waffles?_

Fitz grinned, not even caring that this was going to make finally talking to Skye even more of a pain.

 

_My thoughts on all waffles are overwhelmingly positive. And it’s not that weird, don’t worry, although Skye is never going to shut up about it ever again, and I fully blame you for that._

_If it’s any consolation, she’s ben texting me too. I assume your phone is full of texts from her? Seems like Skye anyway. I have to go though! Waffles to make! See you later_ _J_

“It is eight in the morning, what the fuck are you doing? Are you suddenly Suzy home maker?”

 

“Hush and go get ready for class, you have a nine am lecture and should have been up like an hour ago.”

 

“Why are you making waffles? And I’m ready for class, so shut up.”

 

“Skye you’re wearing a men’s button up shirt and yoga pants. Did you even sleep last night?”

 

“For like twenty minutes. Stop avoiding the question.”

 

“As a thank you for Fitz for fixing my shirt.”

 

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

 

“I thought it might be fun.”

 

“Yeah, sure. Make sure to send me a wedding invite.”

 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response. Drink your coffee and go to class.”

 

“Okay fine, but you have to tell me everything when I get home.”

 

At ten on the dot, Simmons knocked on Fitz’s door, with a picnic basket in one hand and a tray of cups in the other. Tucked under her arm was the borrowed tshirt. It was early, and she’d been busy, so she’d left her hair in the messy bun she’d slept in before, tendrils of hair falling into her face and around her eyes. The door opened a few seconds later, and Fitz came into view. She smiled.

 

“I’ve got waffles, coffee, and hot water for tea. And tea bags.”

 

“Here, le’ me give you a hand.” He chuckled at her enthusiasm, and took the tray of four paper cups, then the basket, leaving her with the shirt, now in her hands, as he set the food and drink down on the table.  “Why the basket, exactly?”

 

“It was on hand. That’s about it really. There’s waffles, some fruit, a can of whipped cream, and a few tins of loose leaf and a strainer in there, as well as some normal bag tea.”

 

“Good lord, lass, do you ever sleep?”

 

“I slept six hours, thank you very much. You however, look like a loose approximation of the living dead.”

 

“I slept for two hours. I was painting.”

 

“Oh! Could I see?”

 

“Sure. It’s done after all. Come on.” He nodded, picked up one of the cups of coffee, sniffed it, and then took a sip. Turning, he lead her to his bedroom, which was about ten percent bed, ten percent closet, ten percent clothes on the floor, and then seventy percent studio space.

 

“My goodness.” Simmons said softly when she saw the portrait of Trip on the easel at the back wall. “Fitz it’s beautiful. You’re very talented. The way you’ve handled the lighting, on the planes of his face it just… wow. “

 

“Thank you. Yeah, I had a lot of fun with the lighting. I love color theory, I think it’s my favorite part of painting.”

 

“Clearly you’ve got an eye for it. Those warm lights and cool darks, and then the warmer, almost red-black, darks for the hair? Really great. I’ve nowhere near this good of a handle on oils, but as I said, I prefer technical work and watercolors. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate stuff like this, of course.”

 

“I’m sure your work is great. I mean, you got into Yale.”

 

“It’s no peach getting in here either though. God, those application process drawings? Having to fold them in half? I about died.”

 

“Oh, yeah, that was the worst. You know, for one of those, I-“ he stopped talking suddenly, and stared intently at Simmons. She’d turned her head towards him just so, to hear him speak, and the light from the window had hit her in the exact right way. Her hair was glowing, so much so it look lit from within, and the shadows on her face were soft and dark and perfect, throwing her features into relief. “Please, do me a favor, and hold still. Do not move at all. Now, you’d said you’d owe me a favor For hand modeling. Can I paint you? The way your face is lit right now is just… it’s astonishing, and it would make a great composition if I got the right shot of it.”

 

“Sure.” Simmons said, her voice careful as she tried not to shift her position. Fitz beamed and ducked into his closet, reappearing with a camera hung around his neck.

 

“Mind if I adjust you a bit?”

 

“Not at all.”

 

Fitz walked up to Simmons, then stepped back again, rubbing the back of his neck in thought. Carefully, he reached a hand out and tugged slightly at her hair, shifting the loose pieces around. He tucked one behind her ear, and mussed the hair at the crown of her head, the ones trying to escape the messy bun, just a bit more, so the light would shine through. His hand took hold of her chin and tilted it, just slightly, and Simmons shut her eyes and hoped there was no pink to her cheeks.

 

“I didn’t notice yesterday, but you’ve got little freckles.” Fitz observed, his voice quiet, as he continued readjusting her hair, fingers running down the side of her neck as he perfect the angle of it. Simmons tried not to shiver. “There. Now, could you maybe… sort of close your eyes but not really? Like, half open, like when you’re tired.”

 

“Like this?” Simmons blinked a few times and lidded her eyes, staring off to the side.

 

“Perfect. And smile, just barely?” He raised the camera up and fiddled with zoom and focus, trying to get the right balance of Simmons and the window behind her in the frame. She turned her lips up, just a little, and it did look like she’d just woken up. Fitz grinned. “That’s perfect. Just hold that a second longer…” he trailed off as she snapped the camera off a few times, and then checked the results. “Alright, good. You can move.”

 

“Can I see?” she asked, voice hopeful.

 

“Yeah, sure. C’mere.” He flicked the review button on the camera and pulled up the photo he’d already mentally marked as the best one, and flipped the camera around. Simmons leaned in.

 

“Oh, I look lovely! And you’re right, that lighting is something.”

 

“Hopefully I can do you justice.”

 

“Oh gosh…” Simmons smiled shyly and then cleared her throat. “So. Waffles then?”

 

“Yes, waffles. I am starving.”

 

Over waffles and coffee, and then tea, and then just mouthfuls of whipped cream straight out of the can, the newly formed friends discussed their lives. Their majors, their parents, their friends. They talked long enough Trip came and went from his morning class, only offering them a raised eyebrow when he came home and when he left again. Eventually Simmons had to take off to get ready for her evening class, but they made plans to meet up that weekend so Simmons could work on her anatomy homework with the help of Fitz’s hands. The remainder of the week passed quickly, with everyone working on midterms projects and presentations, and studying for exams in their lecture courses. Fitz and Simmons managed to steal a few lunch hours together, eating sandwiches in the student lounge and helping each other study for quizzes, or talking about how much work they had to do and how little sleep they’d be getting. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around and it was time for Fitz to come over, Simmons was pretty sure she’d gotten a grand total of ten hours of sleep over the span of the week. But Fitz had promised to bring them both coffee with plenty of extra shots of espresso and extra sugar, so all would be well with the world. She pulled her hair up you of her face, so it wouldn’t get in her eyes, and set her supplies out on the drawing table in her bedroom.

 

Simmons’ drawing table was probably one of her favorite possession. It was the nice glass kind, with a built in light beneath it, so it could be used as a light table, and built in cubbies and ledges for supplies in the sides, and the angle was fully adjustable. She’d tugged an armchair from the living room into one corner of the room, as well as an end table with a few items of various heights and shapes on it, so Fitz would have a place to sit and things to prop his hands up so his wrists wouldn’t get tired. Suddenly, there was a person in her doorway.

 

“Hey. Skye let me in.” Fitz smiled and Simmons waved him over. He handed her a large cup of coffee, and just holding it made her feel more awake. She closed her eyes and took a sip.

 

“Mmm. Thank you.” She grinned and set it down in one of the round cubbies on her desk. Fitz settled into the arm chair and took a long sip of his own coffee.

 

“God, this has been a long week. I’m exhausted.”

 

“I am too. It’s been brutal. This is the last midterm I’ve got to finish though, so that’s nice.”

 

“I’ve got to finish up that portrait of you, but then I’m all done too. Likely be up all night tomorrow working on it though.”

 

“We should celebrate next weekend. Go get pizza, or something. Drag the roommates along. “

 

“Sounds good. So what am I meant to be doing with my hands?”

 

“Just lay them about and hold whatever pose I put them in. The baubles on the table are to prop it up, keep your wrist from tiring out.”

 

“Alright.”

 

Fitz laid his hand on the table, and Simmons looked between it and a page of notes she held, her eyes moving down the page rapidly. Carefully, she takes his hand in hers and lays it on the table, angling his wrist and wrapping his fingers around a thick marker, moving his thumb to press on the cap. Adjusting the goose-neck lamp so the shadows look right, she nods, and Fitz holds still while she works. She sketches quickly and starts inking almost immediately, and her confidence in her movements is impressive. She fans the paper for a moment, letting the ink dry, then pulls out a water color brush and fills the lines with color, thin coats that dry quickly, until the hand is a fully shaded and realized object.

 

“Well, that’s one. Give your hand a break before the next. None of them except the last one, which has to be both hands, should take much longer than that.”

 

“You’re quick.”

 

“Watercolor is a quick medium. You can see if you’d like.” She passes him the thickly texture white paper and he takes it carefully, then shakes his head.

 

“I can see why you’re in technical and medical illustration. The precision in this is amazing. And it looks so solid.”

 

“Thank you. I used to hate inking, but I’ve discovered it lends certain permanence to watercolor it doesn’t look like it has otherwise. The dark outlines make it seem less transient. To me, anyway.”

 

“No, no, that makes perfect sense. It’s really good. You’re really good.”

 

“I’ve got to label them anatomically, but I’m going to scan them and do that. I don’t want to write on the originals.”

  
Fitz nodded, and they went silent for a few minutes and both sipped at their coffee. Fitz rolled and stretched his wrist and Simmons scanned her list, checking one item off with a nearby micron, and pulled her legs up into her chair against her chest.

 

“Are your wrists alright for another round? If I don’t finish this up in the next two hours I’m going to drop dead of exhaustion.”

 

“Yeah, my wrists are fine. Do what you need to.” He put his hand back on the table and she picked it up once more, resting a wood block under his wrist and then carefully splaying out each of his fingers, with the tips flat against the surface of the table. Apparently satisfied, she repeated the sketching, inking and painting process, and set the second piece aside to dry. Next she painted Fitz’s left hand instead of his right, once resting sideways on the table with his thumb, pointer and middle fingers out and ring and pinkie fingers tucked in, and once with his hand at a three quarter angle in the air, palm toward the ground, and his fingers flexed as far back as he could get them. That pose made his fingers ache, and Simmons felt bad, so before starting the final piece she needed, she brought a tube of sore muscle balm from her bathroom and insisted on massaging it into his hands. After all, she’d said, it’s my fault so it’s only right. Her fingers were softer than hi, and slightly smaller, and he didn’t protest much because it felt quite nice. When she arranged his hands for the final painting, they were both out of coffee and half delirious with being tired, but she finished the drawing and painting in under an hour, and put her brush down triumphantly.

 

“Thank you so much, really. It feels so good to just have this done.”

 

“It’s not like I had to do much.”

 

“Sitting for paintings is a pain. Sometimes literally. Really, I appreciate it.” She cracked her neck and made a face, pulling her arms up to stretch.

 

“Sore?”

 

“A bit yeah. It happens. Hazard of the job.” She laughed sleepily and scrubbed at her eyes. “You can linger a bit, if you’d like, but I’m going to duck out and change, alright?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” Fitz nodded and Simmons smiled, rifling through her drawers and disappearing into her bathroom. Moments later she emerged, contacts swapped for glasses, wearing an oversized button up pajama top and a pair of cotton shorts. She stopped at her dresser and opened a bottle of advil, taking three with a nearby glass of water. Fitz frowned.

 

“Grab a pillow and sit on the floor in front of me.” He said suddenly. Simmons looked at him oddly, but followed his instructions, sitting cross-legged on a throw pillow between his feet. Fitz pulled his arms up and put them on her shoulders, and at first her muscles stiffened in surprise but relaxed after a moment when she chose to simply enjoy it. He kneaded and pulled at the muscles in her shoulders and neck, trying to work the tightness from them, occasionally scraping an errant lock of hair from her neck. As he worked she sighed and relaxed into him. When he lifted his hands, she turned and smiled gratefully, then frowned.

 

“You look like you’re about to fall over. Please, stay here and rest a bit before walking back to your apartment.”

 

“It just a few floors.” Fitz argued, but his point was interrupted with a loud yawn. “…Yeah, okay.”

 

“Here, come sit.” She patted her bed and leaned over, putting her laptop on the trunk at the edge of her bed and pulling up Netflix. “Watch a movie and relax, then head back.” She smiled and all Fitz could do was nod and agree, flopping down against her pillow while she put on Galaxyquest. They made it through twenty minutes of the movie before they both ended up dead asleep in Simmons’ bed.

 

“Shit.” She said with a laugh when they woke up the next morning. Fitz blinked, look around and buried his face in his hands.

 

“Bloody hell.” He chuckled under his breath.

 

“Skye is never ever letting us here the end of this.”

 

“Maybe she’s still out?” Fitz said hopefully. But then a crash in the kitchen and a chorus of two giggles said otherwise. “Well. Get this over with? I need tea.”

 

“Might as well. Let’s go.” She turned to him and smiled, eyes softening when she caught sight of his hair. “Your bedhead is a treat by the way.”

 

“Oh, shut up.”

 

“No, really. It’s cute.”

 

“Yeah and you look so dewy fresh and awake immediately upon waking it should probably be illegal. Look at you. What the hell.” Fitz threw his hands up and Simmons laughed, hiding a blush with her hands.

 

“Well someone is talkative when he’s tired.”

 

“I’ve not had an caffeine yet and thus am not to be held accountable for my actions.” He said as he pushed the door to Simmons’ room open. She laughed, and when they walked into the living room, they were greeted my twin stares from Skye and… Trip apparently.

 

“Trip?” Fitz asked, arching an eyebrow. Trip shrugged.

 

“We know each other.”

 

“Clearly.” The Simmons said, her smile knowing. Fitz look over at her alarmed and then shrugged.

 

“Whatever. Breakfast?” he looks at her expectantly.

 

“Tea’s in the cabinet over the stove. I’ll look in the fridge.”

 

“Nuh uh, nope, both of you stop.” Skye crossed her arms. “What exactly has happened here?”

 

“Fitz came over to be a hand model for my homework, and I told him he needed to relax before going home, because he looked tired, so we were watching Galaxyquest-“

 

“And apparently we were more tired than we thought, because we both just sort of passed out and woke up just a few moments ago.” Fitz shrugged.

 

“So you just… fell asleep. In the same bed. Casually.”

 

“More or less, yes,” Simmons nodded. “Can we get food and tea now, please?”

 

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” Skye said, rolling her eyes and then eying them specifically as they moved around each other easily. She raised an eyebrow when Fitz set out mugs for both of them and knew how Simmons took her tea, and when Simmons appeared to be aware of how Fitz liked his eggs. Eventually she shrugged and walked off, tugging Trip with her.

 

“Oh! I was wondering. Could I come by tomorrow and see the painting? Once it’s finished?”

 

“Sure. It is of you, after all, only fair.”

 

“Thanks, Fitz.”

 

“Leo.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Call me Leo.”

 

“Oh!” she smiled brightly and Fitz very studiously annoyed the summersault in his chest. “Leo it is. And I suppose if you called me Jemma I wouldn’t mind terrible.”

 

“It suits you. Jemma, I mean.”

 

“…Thank you.” She smiled softly.

 

The next day, after classes for the day had ended, there was a quiet knock on Fitz’s door. Slowly, he made his way over, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes. It was a cold night, and the heating was broken, so he’d pulled a beanie and a jumper on and called it a day. He swung open the door and grinned when he saw Simmons.

 

“Jemma. Good to see you.” Her first name seemed strange to use, but it was nice. It suited the strange familiarity that had grown between them since that day in the art store.

 

“Hi.” She smiled. She looked as tired as he felt, once again in glasses instead of contacts, and a loose tank top over what looked to be pajama pants “I’m terribly sorry for the late hour, but much to my own dismay, I came home from classes and promptly fell asleep sitting up at the table. But I wanted to come see your finished painting.”

 

“No worries, I was up. Trip’s out somewhere.” He waved her in.

 

“So’s Skye, so they’re probably off somewhere together.”

 

“Well, the painting is in my room so.” Fitz smiled shyly and shrugged, letting her walk in front of him and through his open door.

 

“Oh, Leo.” She said softly, when she saw it sitting in the easel, a small oscillating fan helping the paint dry enough for it to be carried. “It’s amazing.” Simmons grinned widely and walked closer, leaning in as far as she dared. That close, she could see all the tiny brushstrokes that painted in the amber of her eyes and the blush of her cheeks, and most spectacularly, the golden light shining through her hair and falling along the edge of her face. The painting looked like it glowed. “The detail on this is mind blowing, you must have worked for hours.”

 

“Had to work extra hard to make sure the end product did the subject matter justice.” Fitz stopped and made a face “Fuck, did I say that out loud? I did didn’t I? God I need to sleep.”

 

“I’m sorry, you must be exhausted. I’ll head home, we’ll make plans sometime soon though?”

 

“No.”

 

“No we won’t make plans?” she frowned, her eyebrows knitting together.

 

“No, I mean, no, it’s fine, you don’t have to go.”

 

“Oh. Are you sure?”

 

“Stay. We’ll watch a movie, or some episodes of X-Files, or something.”

 

“Last time we tried that we fell asleep.”

 

“If we pass out, we pass out, was it really so awful last time?” Fitz looked at her hopefully, and she smiled.

 

“Oh, alright, why not.”

 

“D’you want somethin’ warmer than that shirt? It’s cold out tonight and our heater’s busted.” He asked her over his should as he plugged in his laptop and tugged a spare box to the foot of his bed, to put his laptop on.

 

“It is a bit chilly, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

 

“I don’t mind. Lemme find somethin’ for you.” He smiled and dug through his closet, frowned, then turned on his heel and tugged something from a messenger bag. It was a loose blue cableknit sweater. Simmons accepted it and pulled it on, trying not to smile as the smell hit her. It smelled precisely like Fitz. Notes of cinnamon scented soap, the clean smell of deodorant, the strange almost woody smell of oil paint, and the strong and slightly chemical orange smell that could only be grumtine oil. She’d always liked the smell of the oil medium, even if it hurt her nostrils a little. And now that it reminded her of Fitz, it just furthered her enjoyment of the smell.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“No problem. So, movie, or X-Files?”

 

“X-Files. Start at the beginning, it’s been awhile for me.”

 

“Sounds like a plan.”

 

They managed to watch two episodes before Simmons nodded off against Fitz’s shoulder, and he followed suit soon after, managing to edge them both down onto the mattress properly so no one would wake up with a sore neck. In the morning, Simmons came to first and laughed, causing Fitz to stir.

 

“Oh dear, we’ve done it again.”

 

“Clearly we find each other very boring.” Fitz said cheekily.

 

“Yes, I do find you unbearably dull.” She stuck out her tongue. “When do you have class? Would you like to go out for breakfast?”

 

“You have pajama pants on.”

 

“Don’t care.” She beamed.

 

“What? The impeccably dressed and practically perfect in every way Jemma Simmons voluntarily going out in pajamas?” Fitz jumped out of bed and threw open the blinds “Oh thank god, the world hasn’t ended. I was afraid it might have.”

 

“Leo you absolute prat!” Simmons laughed and chucked one of his pillows at his head. He dodged the pillow and walked over to his bed, leaning over to try and yank the other pillow from behind Simmons, but fell forward when she kicked his feet out from under him over the edge of the bed with a laugh. He feel gracelessly to the bed, landing half on top of her. He coughed.

 

“Oh. Well. Hello there.”

 

“Hi.” She said playfully, smiling up at him.

 

“Um.”

 

“For the love of god, Leo, just kiss me.” She rolled her eyes and smiled again, and Fitz grinned.

 

“I think I can manage that.”

 

He lifted her head up to is, taking a second to brush her hair from her cheeks, and smiled once more before closing his eyes and pressing his lips into hers. Humming contentedly, Simmons wound her arms up and around his neck, trusting him to support her as she leaned up and into him. His thumb stroked a path along her cheekbone and down into her hair, and he pulled away carefully, leaning his forehead against hers.

 

“You know, I’m quite fond of you.” He said quietly, with a dreamy smile on his face. Simmons’ expression echoed his.

 

“Yeah, I’m pretty fond of you too.”

 

“So breakfast?”

 

“Yes, breakfast.”

 

“It’s a date?”

 

“It was always a date, you dunce. You’re the most thick headed boy I’ve ever met.”

 

“You’re not so bad yourself.” He quipped, sticking his tongue out. “Come on then, the café across the street won’t care we’re both dressed for bed.”

 

“People from school are going to see us.” Simmons noted, pushing her glasses up her nose as she moved to stand.

 

“Am I supposed to be concerned about my classmates seeing me at breakfast with a beautiful woman wearing my sweater over her sleeping clothes? Because I am not at all concerned about that.”

 

“I don’t know how private of a person you are. Wouldn’t want to overstep any boundaries.” She shrugged simply.

 

“You sure you’re alright with going out like this?”

 

“Perfectly so. And it will be quite the story to tell Skye, won’t it.” Simmons smirked and took Fitz’s hand and lead him out the door, scarcely stopping so they could both pull on shoes.

 

They grinned all the way to the café and all the way through the meal, and were in fact still grinning and giggling when they went to Simmons’ apartment to work on homework. Skye barely stopped short of clapping when they walked into the dorm holding hands, and if they hadn’t had the receipts from the café, she wouldn’t have believed they actually went out like that.

 

“Hey.” Fitz said later that evening, when they’d finished their work and gone to class and come home, Simmons peered up at him from where her head rested in his lap, letting him card his fingers through her hair.

 

“Hm?”

 

“I’m glad you ran into me that day.”

 

“And I’m equally glad you spilled paint all over my shirt.” She grinned up at him, and he leaned down and kissed her, and not for the last time, they nodded off to sleep together in a tangle of limbs on the sofa.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a silly little plot bunny I had that grew a mind of it's own and became this! Hopefully at least a few people enjoy it. Title is from 'She's Thunderstorms' by the Arctic Monkeys, if anyone is curious.


End file.
